Keep Your Strength (For Me)
by heyilikezombies
Summary: It's never been easy for either of them. Even before Stiles' best friend turned into a werewolf & before Derek's family was murdered. Unfortunately, things aren't getting any better. Stiles is lost in a coma Derek fears he'll never wake up from. But Stiles does open his eyes - and he finds himself in a place he doesn't know with no memory of how he got there.{T for language; 7/12?}
1. Chapter 1: 58 Days 3 Hours 22 Minutes

Chapter One: **58 DAYS; 3 HOURS; 22 MINUTES** ||_ Derek_

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Sleeping.

That's what they'd said._ He's just sleeping._ But he wasn't. And Derek refused to be patronized. Stiles was gone; dead to the world, just as he'd been for the previous fifty-eight days. He didn't speak. He didn't come up with any sarcastic remarks or any obscure pop culture references. He didn't laugh, and he didn't drive around in his Jeep. He just laid motionless in that hospital for days on end, hanging onto his life by the thinnest thread.

Derek hadn't moved from Stiles' bedside for more than fifteen minutes at a time, apart from the nights that the hospital staff would kick him out of the building and force him away. The alpha only left voluntarily when the sheriff was there, or to take short showers, or to grab small meals. Every once in awhile, he'd drive to the Stilinski House to snatch a movie or a book he and Stiles could dive into. For two months, the werewolf had kept up this routine, the whole time, telling himself that it was his fault Stiles was even there in the first place - injured; and lost in a deep sleep it seemed he'd never wake up from.

"Hey," Derek said softly, tiptoeing into Stiles' room. He closed the door quietly behind him and pulled the chair in the corner of the room over to its usual spot beside the teenager's bed. He then sat down on the mattress and tilted his head slightly to the side, delicately brushing the back of his hand over Stiles' hairline. Derek looked down at him for a moment or two, trying his best to remain hopeful in an attempt to lift his own spirits. Without him being fully aware of it, his thoughts drifted away for a little while, running off this way and that, down dirt paths and scaling city walls. It had to be nearly five minutes later when Derek realized what he'd been doing and snapped himself out of his daze. The book in his arms was placed on the nightstand, and the chair nearby was tugged even closer with his foot. He refocused on Stiles after that, swallowing over a lump in his throat the size of a golf ball.

"Good morning," Derek whispered. The saddest smile was on his lips as he leaned forward to place a soft kiss to Stiles' forehead.

The entire predicament would've been difficult enough for Derek without the overwhelming amount of guilt thrown into the mix. He still would've been torn to pieces, and his should still would've been completely demolished - but at least he could've let somebody else take the hit for the damage done. He could've been angry; could've placed the blame on somebody else's shoulders for once. But no, of course, he'd screwed that up too. The one person other than Derek that was responsible for what had happened to Stiles had been very brutally murdered not thirty seconds after his gun had been fired.

Derek had ripped his throat out.

He couldn't have let him live after what he'd done, even if the bullets that had pierced Stiles' body hadn't been intended for him. Undoubtedly, they'd been intended for Derek, as they'd been fired from the tip of a hunter's gun, and were very carefully laced with wolfsbane. Stiles had jumped out in front of Derek, taking the bullet for him. Miraculously, it skirted right around his lung as it made impact with Stiles' body. It was truly a miracle that Derek had gotten him back to the hospital in time, let alone that Stiles had remained breathing long enough for the doctors to get the fragmented shards of lead out of him.

The whole time Stiles had been in the Operating Room, Derek had sat in the guest area, focusing intently on singling out Stiles' heartbeat. For nearly four hours, he'd sat in one of those chairs, with his elbows resting on his knees and his hair sticking to his forehead in cold sweat. It took everything in him not to scream and to try to stay calm. It was so difficult for him to relax, in fact, that he'd been 101% ready to burst through the double doors at the end of the hallway and bite Stiles in front of everybody if his heartbeat faltered even for a moment.

Thankfully though, it didn't.

Derek pulled away from Stiles, still smiling as he sank down in the chair next to his bed. "Your dad wasn't home, so I grabbed a good one this time." His words were soft, like velvet, and spoken ever so tenderly.

Derek picked up the book off the bedside table, setting it down on the mattress, next to Stiles. _"The Outsiders,"_ He stated happily. He looked up at the boy on the bed, half-expecting some kind of reaction from him. It made his heart clench, but he kept on smiling, kept his tone lighthearted, just in case Stiles was listening. "It's uh..." He chuckled darkly and flipped over the book so that he could get a brief look at the blurb. "It's one of my favorites."

The werewolf looked up at Stiles' face once more, his own falling as he did so. He swallowed hard over the now painful tightness in his throat, slipping the boy's hand into his. Derek slowly moved his thumb over Stiles', gazing longingly at his closed eyes, aching to see them open. He carefully brought Stiles' hand up to his lips, ever so gently kissing the back of his palm. He allowed his eyes to fall shut for half a second, then forced himself to smile again as he set their joined hands down on the mattress. Derek's thumb glided soothingly along Stiles' all too cool skin as he onehandedly flipped open the paperback in front of him.

"Chapter One," He began. "When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home..."


	2. Chapter 2: Time Flies

Reviews would be greatly appreciated! :)

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Chapter Two: **TIME FLIES** ||_ Stiles_

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Stiles woke with a jolt, his body drenched in sweat. His heart was hammering, and his breathing was heavy as his eyes roamed over his surroundings. He was in a familiar place, one he was sure he'd absolutely positive he'd been before, yet he couldn't place his finger on exactly where. And that wasn't the only strange thing, either. He could've sworn he'd just been in a hospital somewhere mere minutes before, being rolled into the O.R. with some kind of fatal injury.

That could've been a dream, he supposed. He'd just been sleeping, after all. But somehow, his memory of the bright lights of the hospital ceiling and the intense pain he was sure he'd felt in his stomach seemed incredibly real for a dream.

Worried, Stiles looked down at himself. He lifted his shirt, touched his face, checked his arms and legs for any bruises or scratches, and found absolutely nothing wrong. Hell, the little purple marks on his biceps from the last time he'd been slammed into a wall (courtesy of the one and only Derek Hale) had even disappeared. No part of him seemed to be injured or anything like that. As far as Stiles could tell, he wasn't even in the vicinity of 'hurt'.

The teenager slowly rose to his feet, his knees cracking once or twice as he stood up and got a better look around. The walls surrounding him were white, and judging by the strong scent of wet paint, Stiles was guessing the house was under minor reconstruction. It was practically bare, without a bit of furniture or any trace of inhabitance anywhere to be found. Dead, crumpled leaves were scattered across the floor like confetti. The only thing even somewhat resembling human presence was the fireplace in the corner.

Stiles furrowed his eyebrows together, trying to figure out what was going on; trying to figure out where he was. He wracked his brain for answers, vaguely recalling blacking out from the pain and the exhaustion brought on by whatever had happened to him. For whatever reason, he also remembered the alarming amount of concern in Derek's face. That was his last memory before the darkness had set in, and he'd gone under. He couldn't recall one single thing after that. There was nothing. Not darkness. Not a place or a person.

Nothing.

Oddly enough for Stiles, who had apparently gotten seriously hurt, he didn't even feel tired. He wasn't hungry or thirsty; he wasn't even sore from lying on the floor. He felt just fine. Actually, now that he was moving around, he felt a lot more than fine. There was almost a supernatural sense of perfection emanating off of him; something like liquid gold was surging through through his veins, making him feel somewhat unconquerable.

"Hello?" Stiles called out into the vacant house after what seemed like a long pause. He took a few steps forward, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. "Is anybody here? I just need -"

Stiles' breath caught in his throat, and his heart skipped a beat. Only a few feet away from him, a small white vase filled with tiny purple flowers sat atop the fireplace, seeming to beckon to him. He could've sworn it hadn't been there a few seconds prior, yet there it was, its deathly violet petals smiling sweetly at him from there they stood.

Stiles swallowed thickly as he moved forward. He forced himself to place one foot in front of the other, a mental_ left, right, left, right, left, right_ ringing in his skull. Terror had seized him already, just as another realization hit him. It caught him completely off guard, and it made his stomach drop as if he'd swallowed a stone. In pace of the repeating _left, right, left, right _in Stiles' mind was one word:

_Werewolf._

How was it that he'd wound up in a place he didn't know, without any injuries, without knowing how he got there, and without knowing why he was there? How could that be? Any normal logical person would figure that he might've sleepwalked or that perhaps somebody had brought him there and left for a reason unknown. Something along those lines. Only Stiles wasn't normal anymore. He knew too much. His innocence was lost, and his naivety could never be restored. That became extremely clear to him as he hesitantly approached the tiny porcelain vase filled with wolfsbane.

He picked it up with trembling hands, keeping his eyes locked on the herbs. He didn't even dare to blink as he cautiously,_ carefully_, reached out to pinch one of the flowers between his index finger and his thumb.

At precisely the moment Stiles made contact with the petal, the entire house around him began to spin. Literally. The house whirled on an invisible axis, sending Stiles hurtling to the ground, and the vase shattering onto the floor. The tiny flowers sprawled out across the now dirty wooden planks, and Stiles watched in fear as each flower withered away before his very eyes. They shriveled up and crumbled away into a fine purple dust as the house spun and spun and spun. The teenager squeezed his eyes shut tight, lying on his side. His arms wrapped around his knees, and he clung onto them like they were his only lifeline.

Soon enough, thank God, the spinning ceased. Stiles opened one eye, then the other, waiting for his vision to refocus on his surroundings. His breathing sounded shallow, and his limbs felt like lead as he rolled over and retreated to the fireplace just so he could rest his back against it. Once more, the boy had to stifle a gasp as he got another look around, eyes panning over everything.

The entire interior of the house had changed. The walls were charred. The staircase had been blackened with soot. The chimney was burned near the top, dried ash covering the surrounding area on the ceiling. Overcome with fear, Stiles pressed his backside to the hearth, still holding his knees so tightly his muscles burned. Terror choked him like a noose as his location dawned on him -

The Hale House.


	3. Chapter 3: Visiting Hours

Derek chapters tend to be shorter than Stiles chapters, just a little FYI. If you read, review? 3

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Chapter Three: **VISITING HOURS** ||_ Derek_

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"'On the fifth day I had read up to Sherman's siege of Atlanta in Gone with the Wind, owed Johnny a hundred and fifty bucks from poker games, smoked two packs of Camels, and as Johnny had predicted, got sick...'"

Derek read, pausing occasionally every few paragraphs to look up at Stiles. His heart ached when he did so, but when his gaze returned to the book on the mattress and fell upon the words printed on the thin paper, he got distracted. Once he became invested in the book again, he'd momentarily forget that Stiles was in critical condition, lying on that hospital bed. He'd forget that there was a good chance Stiles would never wake up and that he probably wouldn't even remember the alpha if he did.

As awful as it'd be, Derek supposed that it'd be a good thing if he was a total stranger to Stiles when and if he woke up. He could start all over again, with no recollection of the existence of werewolves and creatures that go bump in the night. Life would be easier for him then, right? Life without the pack; without everybody subconsciously relying on him; without knowing his best friend was half-mutt; without Derek. Stiles would be so much better off without him, wouldn't he? All Derek had done was get him into trouble, and he didn't want to get him into any more.

"'I hadn't eaten anything all day; and smoking on an empty stomach doesn't make you feel real great. I curled up in a corner to -'"

Derek froze. There were a familiar set of footsteps plodding down the hallway; hesitant and sorrowful and heavy on the welcome mat at the front of the hospital. Without a doubt, it was Stiles' father. What was he doing back so early? The werewolf looked down at Stiles, a pained look on his face. He bit his lip and stood up, pushing the chair back into the corner, tucking_ The Outsiders _inside of his leather jacket.

"Stiles," Derek cooed softly. His knuckles grazed across the arc of Stiles' cheekbone and he sat down on the mattress beside him. "I have to go, okay? Your dad's gonna be here in a minute. I'll be back to finish the book, I promise." He forced a smile down at the unconscious body lying on that creaky bed - more for himself than for Stiles. "Stay gold, Ponyboy," he whispered, craning his neck to kiss Stiles' forehead ever so lightly, as if he didn't want to wake him.

And with that, Derek ducked out of Stiles' room, pushing away the tears that had welled up in his eyes. He clung tightly to the paperback in his jacket as he hurried down the hallway to his left, listening to the door to Stiles' room open. The Sheriff headed right on in, blissfully unaware of the werewolf's presence in the hospital.


	4. Chapter 4: Be My Guest

Glad to see everybody's enjoying! :)

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Chapter Four:** BE MY GUEST** || _Stiles_

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"It was beautiful before it went up in flames, wasn't it?"

The teenager flew back against the bricks, his arms pinned up to the fireplace by some unseen force. His breath had been knocked out of him, his lungs threatening to explode from the amount of pressure building beneath them. When had _he_ gotten there?! And _**how**__?!_ Stiles might've managed to survive a fatal wound and failed to remember how he'd done so, but he _definitely_ remembered watching the man heading towards him burn. He remembered how his skin had darkened and peeled right off his body as he lay on the ground, choking. He remembered how Derek had slashed right through his neck without an inch of remor-

_Derek. _

Derek had killed Peter once, he could do it again, right? He had to be hanging around the house somewhere. Jesus, he hardly ever left! Derek could help Stiles. He could save him. He'd be popping up out of nowhere in a few seconds acting all badass, jumping over shit and beating the crap out of Peter, right?

"D-Derek," Stiles whispered weakly. His voice shook. "Help-p," he croaked.

"I have to admit, I didn't think I'd be seeing _you_ here," Peter taunted. He placed one foot in front of the other, taking painfully slow steps forward. His precision in the way he moved seemed almost as if he was walking along a line only he could see. "I'd been expecting my nephew eventually; maybe Scott or Jackson, but not you, Stiles."

"You're..." Stiles was still pressed to the fireplace, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. _Derek, come on. Please._ "You're dead," Stiles forced out, putting all the strength he could muster into his voice. "You're dead, and I'm dreaming."

That earned a small, strained chuckle out of Peter as he squatted down to look Stiles in the eye. "I'm dead?" He asked with a dangerous smile. He placed his hand on Stiles' leg, fingers locking firmly around his calf. Stiles' muscles stiffened immediately. "If I'm dead... This shouldn't hurt."

Before Stiles could even open his mouth or attempt to get away, the alpha was extending his claws into Stiles' skin. He cried out into the empty house, squeezing his eyes shut in pain. His back arched and he bit down on his lip, trying to quiet himself down in order to keep some of his dignity. Peter finally retracted the claws after a few more seconds, and Stiles fell back against the wall once more, clutching his leg with white-knuckled hands.

"Tell me, Stiles," Peter spoke again, tilting his head to the side in that sadistic way of his. "How did you get here?"

Stiles only glared at the werewolf, lips pressed into a thin line. If he could've seen himself at that moment, he would've seen how much he looked like Derek when he scowled.

"Come on, Stiles. You have to remember," Peter encouraged, his smile growing kinder as his now red eyes bore into Stiles' amber ones. "What happened? Did you hit your head? Was there a car accident, perhaps?" He hesitated for a moment, seemingly curious. "Maybe you rejected The Bite?"

_The Bite. _Stiles' heart knotted up in his chest and his stomach started doing somersaults. Yeah, because things couldn't get any worse than they already were, right? Now Peter had Stiles' head filled with so many thoughts, he couldn't differentiate one from another. He literally had to put his hands on the sides of his head because he was afraid his skull would spin right off his neck. His face screwed up, eyes shut as he let his head fall between his knees. "Stop," he gritted out.

"Oh, don't worry, Stiles. You're not a wolf."

Was that supposed to be comforting? Because Peter Hale** really** wasn't the comforting type.

"And luckily for you, you're not dead, either," Peter explained, eyes turning red again as he placed his hand on the teenager's shoulder. Stiles shivered. "You really don't remember, do you?"

At that, he had to look up at Peter. He shot daggers at the older man, yet, there was something in the back of his mind that was starting to acknowledge that Peter really could help him figure out what was going on. Maybe he wasn't the bad guy after all, just... horribly misunderstood. And maybe -

Stiles pulled the brakes on that train of thought after he realized it was gaining too much momentum. It came to a screeching halt, and Stiles forced it over the edge of a cliff. It tumbled down the hill, out of sight, and he told himself that was where it'd remain.

"You know what happened," Stiles accused all of a sudden. Where had that come from? His eyes fell over Peter's face, studying every little line and crease in the skin as he spoke again. His words were practically dripping with anger. "You_ know_ why I'm here."

"You're stuck somewhere in between," Peter replied, something resembling pain flashing briefly across his face. Regret, perhaps? Pity? But before Stiles knew it, Peter was smiling again at him, lips curled up into an all too familiar demonic grin.

"We both are."


	5. Chapter 5: Beaten & Bruised

Hi guys. Sorry this chapter is so short. I'm gonna try to have Six up ASAP :) Thanks for everything and the reviews and the favorites and follows! :*

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Chapter Five:** BEATEN & BRUISED** ||_ Derek_

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Derek went out to his car, sitting down in the front seat, slamming the door shut. He gripped the steering wheel tightly in his hands so tightly, it stung and closed his eyes after a long pause. The thing about Stiles being in the hospital was that no matter how painful it was for Derek to be in there with with him while he was in that state, watching Stiles' fragile body deteriorate more and more every day, listening to the all-too-soft beating of his heart; it was nothing compared to what happened when he_ wasn't _sitting beside him in that haunting room.

Stiles could die at any moment, and Derek wouldn't be there. His barely-beating heart could give out, and he'd be gone. What would happen then? The werewolf would show up at the hospital to find an empty bed and a broken-hearted sheriff, when he should've been there to keep Stiles alive. Because if worse came to worse, he'd bite Stiles-to keep him breathing and thinking and annoying the shit out of Derek on a regular basis. Derek had long since taken it upon himself to make sure Stiles pulled through.

He had to. It wasn't optional. There was no choice to be made. Stiles wasn't dying, not on Derek's watch. And the only thing that could possibly be worse than Stiles slipping under, unable to awaken, would be the teenager getting pushed into a vegetative state, like the one Peter had been trapped in for six** long** years. Derek had been through the grieving process once, and he'd been forced to stay strong for Laura's sake.

Deep down though, Derek knew he couldn't keep that same strength he'd had with Peter for Stiles. He'd be speaking mindlessly to a zombified version of Stiles for who knew how long, hoping blindly that he'd come around. Derek couldn't do it again. He wouldn't, Not this time. He'd kill himself first. Or maybe he'd willingly go to the Argents and surrender.

The whole thing was his fault, anyway. He deserved it.

So Derek waited for Sheriff Stilinski to leave Stiles. The werewolf sat in the parking lot, leaning back against the driver's seat and flicking the radio on. He ran his palms over his face as notes fell from his speakers and floated up and around him, filling the air. When his hands fell from his face after a minute or so, he looked up for a moment, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Derek furrowed his brows together in surprise and adjusted it so he could get a better look at himself.

His eyes were sunken back into his head, light brown circles were under them, coloring his eye sockets. His cheekbones were far more pronounced as well. They stood out against his pale, discolored skin, making him seem sick. Hell, he looked as if he'd been the one who'd been shot. And God - it felt like it'd been him too.


	6. Chapter 6: Drawing Conclusions

Hi guys, sorry it took so long to update, and yes, I know the chapters are short. However, they're going to get longer near chapter 10, which really isn't that far away. A few more chapters should be up in the next few days, but school has been really taking up all of my time, so I'll see what I can get done. I love you all, and thanks for reading :)

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Chapter Six: **DRAWING CONCLUSIONS** ||_ Stiles_

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"What?" Stiles asked, his mouth falling open. The ability to hide what he was feeling seemed to have been shoved right up the chimney. Stuck? What the Hell? "What... What does that mean?" Stiles tried to put the pieces together, but nothing seemed to fit. Where there was a smooth edge, there was only a jagged piece, and where there was a jagged edge, there was only a smooth. "Am I in purgatory?"

Peter laughed dryly and moved to sit beside the teenager, crossing his legs with a contented huff. For a second or two, he looked almost as nervous and as uncomfortable as Stiles did. "No. Not exactly," he said. "You'd have to die to be in purgatory. Or Heaven or Hell, for that matter." The werewolf sighed heavily, exhaling through his nose. Okay, now it just seemed like Peter was babysitting. And it was just pissing Stiles off. What, was he some kid Saint Peter Hale had been forced to look after?

"You're alive," Peter said offhandedly, like it didn't mean a damn thing. "But barely."

Stiles was ready to snap. He inched away from Peter just so he could look him in the face. His eyes had become dark, the doe-like quality of them fleeing into the woods, taking shelter from the animistic cloud of dust swirling behind the honey-browns now. "What does that mean?!" He fumed, backing up even further. He pronounced every word sharply, just so that Peter would be sure to get his point. "Stop being so_ fucking_ cryptic, and tell me what's going on!"

To Stiles' surprise, Peter not only obliged, but he looked genuinely surprised for a moment or two. After he'd visibly swallowed, the alpha settled back against the wall, his expression softening. Somehow, even then, he looked sadistic and ridiculously creepy. "You're in a coma," he said, empathy hiding in the undertone of his voice. Peter looked Stiles in the eye, for the first time in a long time, seeming partially human.

"It's been fifty eight days since you went under."

Stiles couldn't breathe again. He scooted away from the werewolf's touch as the puzzle he'd been struggling to figure out practically solved itself. It all made sense. The feeling of perfection he'd had earlier, no wounds, no soreness, no explanation of how he'd gotten to the Hale House or why it's spun on its very hinges. How else could it be explained? This was the only way he could conceive that would fully -

Wait.

58 days?_ FIFTY EIGHT?!_ He'd lost _**fifty eight days**_ of his life?! Stiles shook his head feverishly, looking over at Peter with the most sincere look on his face, searching through his vocabulary to find the right words.

"You're lying," was all he could say. He started standing up, his legs feeling wobbly and unstable. "I don't... I don't know how, or why, but you're lying." As soon as he was done speaking, he started for the door, charging towards it at full speed.

And Peter, knowing better than to try and stop him, called out: "They won't see you, Stiles! They won't hear you, either!" He shouted this, though his voice sounded more like the crunch of gravel beneath new sneakers. "It's like you're not even there!"

But Stiles was gone, chest tight, limbs like anchors weighing him down as he barreled forward. He was headed for the Beacon Hills Hospital, wanting - no, _needing_ to know that this was all a huge lie.


	7. Chapter 7: Shifting Gears

Another shorty, sorry! But we're getting closer to the longer chapters, hurray! Also, a little heads up for Chapter Eight?  
_Ouch._

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Chapter Seven:** SHIFTING GEARS** || _Derek_

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There was a light tapping against the passenger window that made Derek's head snap to the side, his body tense and on the alert. Thankfully though, it was only Scott, who was standing outside with the tiniest smile on his face, giving Derek what he was sure was supposed to be a friendly wave. The poor alpha, mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted, didn't have the energy to fight Scott or to tell him to get lost. He simply reached over to his right to unlock the car door, unsure of what would follow.

"Don't you have school?" Derek grumbled as Scott climbed into the car and closed the door.

"It's Saturday," Scott replied. His voice was quiet, and his heart was thundering in his chest.

Derek only nodded at him and fixed his gaze forward, not having a bit of strength left inside of him. He was pulling from a reservoir that had been long since tapped out, and it was draining him. He tried to keep a solemn expression on his face, but he could feel his mask beginning to crack right down the middle. Clenching his jaw, Derek closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his index finger, which proved to be literally holding him together. A broken sigh escaped his lips as he did his best to keep his composure.

"He's gonna be okay," Scott said softly, surprising Derek. He'd expected him to leave or to remain silent or something of that nature. He certainly hadn't been expecting an attempt at comfort though, that was for sure.

"You should go see him," Derek said, his voice even softer that Scott's had been. His head was still bowed, his eyes were still closed as he spoke. His other hand was supporting his elbow, and his claws extended into his skin, breaking through the first few layers. Derek didn't even realize it. "He probably misses you," the alpha whispered huskily.

Derek didn't see it, but Scott's face saddened. It was pretty obvious that he'd never seen the older man this distraught over _anything;_ not like this, anyway. He tightened his crooked jaw before letting his head fall, chin touching his chest.

"We're all worried about you," Scott said sullenly, fingers twitching on his knee. "The pack and I, and even Allison, she-"

Derek let his skull fall back against the headrest, and Scott stopped speaking. His hand ran down over his face once more before his eyes opened and he looked over at the omega. He took a breath, urging his vision to refocus. "Why are you really here?" He asked, his expression full of pain. Tears brewed in his eyes because of how hard he'd been biting down on the inside of his cheek, and how much it hurt to swallow.

Scott pressed his teeth together and gave Derek a single, dutiful nod. "This is where he'd want me," he replied.

Derek didn't have to ask who _'he'_ was.

Scott was thankful.


	8. Chapter 8: Lone Racer

Stiles stumbled through the hospital doors; literally _through_ them, scrambling forward into the building. That was enough to clue him in to just how bad his situation was. He practically fell against the font counter, absolutely horrified when the woman sitting there didn't do as much as look up at him.

"Excuse me," he said loudly, eyes flicking between the woman's face and her fingers, dancing quickly across the keyboard. She hadn't even flinched. "Come on, lady, look at me. Please," he pleaded raggedly, suddenly out of breath. He clenched his jaw when she didn't respond, panic and frustration beginning to settle in his bones. Then he shook his head back and forth, beginning to feel nauseated and dizzy, like he was going to faint. "What room am I in?!" He shouted, fingers clamping down on the edge of the reception desk._ "Please!"_

Stiles wound up slowly retreating, chest up in knots, gut twisting and turning. He could feel the panic attack coming on, he could feel it creeping up on him, just when he thought things couldn't get any worse. He was on the floor in less than a minute, gasping for breath, panting hard, face down on his hands and knees. His throat was closing, and his head was drowning in an ocean too many thoughts that wouldn't seem to stop washing over him. This couldn't happen. How could this happen? How could he be... what, dead? In a coma?

Stiles held his head in his hands. He was fine, he told himself. He was just sleeping, and he had to wake up. This was just some **disgustingly **vivid dream. He just had to wake up. _Wake up. Wake up, Stiles. Please, __**please**__ wake up._

But he didn't wake up. And yes, the initial panic passed after what seemed like the longest panic attack of Stiles' life. He was still retching on the floor of the hospital, after it was over, though, and not one person turned to look at him throughout any of it. They couldn't see him, and they couldn't hear him, just like Peter had said. And so they did nothing.

When Stiles' heart rate finally returned to normal and he began recovering, he stood up on shaking legs and started down the hallway. He was driven toward a room on the left side of the corridor; driven by blind instinct. It was a strange, bone-chilling feeling, and it left his blood running thick and cold through his veins.

His spirit pushed the door open slowly, revealing a sight that nearly caused him to collapse again.


End file.
